CAMPOut: 

Okay. Uncle. I apologize. To readers who took umbrage, and in fact, to those who were purple with rage when I wrote my 2001 column criticizing the then-new Showtime drama about gay men, Queer as Folk, I offer a sincere Mea Culpa. I should be flogged.

You know where I’m going.

I’m absolutely, positively head-over-heels addicted to Showtime’s new drama about gay women, The L Word. I can’t take my eyes off it, can’t wait for Sunday, and can’t imagine television allows us such provocative lesbian voyeurism.

And the truth is, in its own way, The L Word flashes the same kind of gratuitous sex and stereotypical mostly white, mostly wealthy gay people, often behaving badly, as QAF does.

But frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. Call me a charlatan, call me a hypocrite, but call me when it’s show time. I beg your forgiveness.

It’s amazing, after a lifetime of watching TV characters reflect other people, to finally watch some of our own. It’s startling and comforting all at the same time.

Now to be sure, things have changed since 2001. And even as I apologize, I have to defend myself a little.

While I still think the initial season of Queer as Folk showed us extraordinarily mean-spirited, sex-obsessed, drug-absorbed characters, it’s since gotten better and braver. At the time it was pretty much alone in offering that much sex and salaciousness on television. I was embarrassed that the only purportedly realistic gay characters on TV were those naughty, naughty boys.

But time and trash marched on. Several seasons of racy hetero Sex in the City and prime time "reality" slut fests have desensitized us to TV sex and bitchiness. Exactly who’s reality do these "reality" shows show? And Survivor makes the QAF guys seem positively charitable toward one another.

As for scantily clad actresses, we can hardly complain given the recent Janet Jackson bra-ha-ha. Thanks for the mammories, hon. On the radio this morning somebody called it a tempest in a C cup. With all the other nudity in entertainment, why, on the eve of a national primary election, and on a day when countless people were being blown up by terrorists, was Janet’s tit front page news? Just asking.

A woman bared a boob at the Superbowl and America acts as if it’s the beginning of the Apocalypse. What is wrong with us????

Of course, the fact that Janet wore a nipple shield, on the remote chance that her costume would fall off, pretty much blows Justin’s claim of "costume malfunction." Timberlake wins euphemism of the year, though. But I digress.

My point is, that with Queer Eye, Will & Grace, and politicians weighing in on same-sex marriage, being out is positively in America’s face these days. Timing is everything for The L Word.

On the cover of New York Magazine, over a gorgeous photo of all the sexy women in the The L Word cast, a banner exclaimed "Not Your Mother’s Lesbians."

Gee, I didn’t know my mother had lesbians—except for me, of course. But that’s a whole other ballgame.

And speaking of ballgames, the magazine story about Showtime’s new series made a point. The L Word highlights nary a flannel shirt or softball game. Representative of a wide spectrum of gaydom, it’s not. The women are all gym-bunny thin with gorgeous clothes, expensive cars and ultra-high-powered careers. It’s very, very upscale Los Angeles. One of my friends called it Melrose Place for lesbians. In The L Word, Jennifer Beals is to most gay women as Sex and the City’s Sarah Jessica Parker is to the majority of straight gals. Hence, it sure is pretty to watch. And not as shocking as it would have been only a few years ago.

But if we think the three years since the debut of Queer As Folk have made a difference in the way we perceive television or movies, what about 18 years?

In l986 I attended the movie premier Desert Hearts in Washington, DC. Most AARP-eligible lesbians remember the film as the very first movie featuring a lesbian love story where two women actually rode off into the sunset together—rather than some tragic end, often self-inflicted, befalling one or both of them.

I remember it like yesterday (probably better than yesterday, alas), seeing hundreds of women converging on the theater and loitering outside. I’d never seen so many lesbians in public before. Seedy bars in bad neighborhoods, yes, but here we were along Pennsylvania Avenue in the nation’s

capital. The motorists driving by had never seen such a thing either, leading to, I swear, a number of screeching tires and at least two crunched fenders in the half hour before the theater doors opened.

But it was inside the theater where history happened. The audience watched, transfixed, as prim Helen Shaver and cute Patricia Charboneau, a "hottie" in today’s vernacular, met, intrigued each other and had an affair—including a beautifully filmed love scene.

As the women kissed, you could feel tension in the theater. At a literally climactic moment, somebody got carried away and screamed, "Oh my!" The rest of the crowd burst out laughing.

Heterosexuals had been watching themselves clasp and gasp on film since Birth of A Nation, but this was our very first chance to experience a filmed love story about people like us. It was magic.

So, too, is The L Word.

Of course, by comparison, Desert Hearts was G-rated for clasping and gasping. The L Word has abundant sex, lingerie, strong language, strong women, nudity and more abundant sex.

It’s great and terrible all at the same time. Sure, I wish there was more diversity in the characters, less sex for sex sake, and a cast that looks more like lesbian America.

But why quibble. The show is about people I know, have known, or might know in the future. And despite its flaws, that makes it very, very special.

Time wounds all heels. I’m sorry I was so hard on your show, fellas.

The L Word is for learned my lesson.